He Loves Me Not
by StudentofDust
Summary: He may not love me, but that doesn't change the fact that I love him... Oneshot, SLASH.


A/N: This story is dedicated to **Loca Bambina**, who's been the greatest supporter in the world of my other _South Park_ story, and who writes the greatest _SP_ stories I've ever read.

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Staring up at the ceiling, with the house completely quiet, no one around... you really do get to thinking about your life. At least, I do. At least, today it was the case. There is no one in the streets; it's about as deserted as the South Park Baptist Church on National Liquor Day.

Times like these, I wish I were dead. Not because I hate life, but because I can't stop thinking. Thinking... about him.

We've known each other since we were little kids; he's even said that he was my best friend. And I wanted so desperately to believe him, because... well, I thought of him as my best friend. But more than that... I loved him.

Is it illegal to fall in love with your best friend? If it is, I'm guilty. What if your best friend is the same gender that you are? Is that so wrong, then?

I hear laughing from the streets now; maybe it's them, I think to myself. Maybe I can actually escape from my prison that I call a bedroom, maybe I can finally break free and tell him how I really feel... I get up, and walk over to the window, hoping, praying that it's them- and more importantly, _him_...

But it's only the parents of our neighborhood, getting together for a Saturday barbecue. Come to think of it, this Monday is the Fourth of July. That means cookouts, parades... and fireworks. My best friend loves to just sit and watch the fireworks; he's absolutely mesmerized by them.

It's doubtful that my parents will even care, though. They don't care about much, lately, just working their asses off to make ends meet. It's pretty obvious to my friends, that we're poor; I know the jokes that are told behind my back, or right to my face, in the case of... _him_.

I don't know why he makes fun of me; maybe, it's because of his own insecurities. He is really overweight, you know; even for a nine-year old, he's just... obese. But, honestly, I don't care. Because, in a way, his deficiencies make me identify with him even more than I would if he were just like my other friends. He knows what it's like to have someone laugh in your face, because of the way that you look, or your family's status... we have that, at least, in common.

But do you want to know what hurts the most? It's simply that he doesn't realize that I... love him. He's so wrapped up in his own little world, that he can't see the feelings I have for him. It would be a different story if he knew about how I felt, and still rejected me; in that case, at least, he would know that my love for him is undying, and purely unconditional. But he doesn't know. I've tried telling him before, but... he won't listen. He's too busy making fun of me for being poor, Kyle for being Jewish, and Stan for... well, for trying to make peace between us.

Slowly, I walk back to my bed, where it seems I've made a perfect indentation of my body in the mattress, one that I don't believe will be going away any time soon. Yeah, that's how much time I've been laying in bed, just pondering all my options. Sad, isn't it? Yet, that's what I am. Because, as I've already said, he doesn't even care that I... love him.

I hear a crash from the kitchen, like a bottle breaking. Dad must be home, and he must have picked up some beers on the way. They don't bother me, though; my mom and dad might hate each other, but they're completely indifferent to me. Which is fine, by me; I don't care, really. I don't even bother getting up and closing my door; the only one who ever tries to interrupt my thoughts is my little brother, and he's spending the night at a friend's place tonight...

The view of the ceiling is getting pretty boring, so I get up and close the curtains, then sit down on the floor facing the window. Sometimes I wonder... do my "friends" even care about me? They sure do ridicule me enough...

I don't know long I sit in that position, usually for two or three hours at a time, but now, it seems like only a few minutes before my eyes get droopy, and I yawn, my tiredness showing. In my mind, I know I'll be dreaming of him, and my dreams will be of us doing things that... well, we can only do in our dreams. The last thing I see is my orange curtains, with a large hole in them, before I drift off into the world between awake and asleep.

And I don't even bother taking off my parka.


End file.
